


Displacement

by hunnybabez



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Self Harm, Slow Burn, a whole lotta drugs, eventually, pls read chapter 1 description!!, tags and characters tba, warren has time powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-12-30 19:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18321617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunnybabez/pseuds/hunnybabez
Summary: In a galaxy with millions of alternate universes, there is one where Max doesn't have powers, and Chloe doesn't die.So why is Warren dreaming about a storm that isn't supposed to come?





	1. Carry on, Wayward Son

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to write this for a very long time, and I'm finally in a place where I feel like I can get all of my ideas written down in a comprehensive way. I have not been confident with my writing for a long time, but I'm trying to push myself. I hope, if you chose to read this, that you enjoy it - if you don't, or if you just have some constructive criticism, please comment! I value all opinions, good or bad.
> 
> Before reading, please note a few things:  
> \- This first chapter is more or less a prologue, so I apologize for the overall lack of Nathan.  
> \- This will eventually become a 'Warren with timepowers' fic, but the way I have it laid out, he won't be getting them for a few chapters. (This will be more than likely be the slowest of slow burns, so stay tuned for the action!)  
> \- I will add tags as they become relevant, but please keep in mind that (without giving too much away) this fic will deal with dark subjects you would expect to see in a Life is Strange game.  
> \- This MAY become an explicit/mature work. It likely won't move above Mature, but I haven't decided yet.
> 
> That's all for now. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT 4/5/19 - I decided to just go ahead and change the rating to Mature since I’m fairly positive this fic will reach that point eventually.

At first, there is nothing. And then ― there is. A flash, a bang, a strobe of bright light. There’s this feeling of pressure, like she’s being crushed but simultaneously torn apart. Her mind screams. It’s not pain ― it can’t be ― but it's just… nothing. It is nothing, and everything at the same time. There are infinite worlds in front of her, infinite parallel realities with infinite versions of herself. She reaches out as far as she can, and then, inexplicitly, she is safe.

And then she is calm.

 

* * *

 

Warren is falling, falling, falling, and then he finds himself somewhere very strange. It’s dark, and raining harder than he’s ever seen ― he digs his heels into the mud, trying desperately to stay upright when the wind is fighting so hard to knock him down. Through the rain, he recognizes the uphill path as the one that leads to the lighthouse. He’s in Arcadia Bay, and not far from his dorm room, or even his house. It should be a comforting thought, but instead, it just fills him with dread.  Warren wonders where his Dad is, where his parents are, his teachers, his dog. He hopes they’re all okay.

As he looks on to the danger ahead of him, he considers turning back. He wishes he is home, but he knows that the journey would be far longer and far more dangerous than going up the hill and camping out in the lighthouse.  And Warren is nothing if not determined; so he puts his arms in front of himself (the wind feels like knives slicing at his skin) and he presses on, and on, and on. 

An eternity later, Warren finds himself on the top of the hill, and the lighthouse nearby. As he stumbles toward the tower, he notices two things: one, the light is barely even visible through the rain fog, and two, the ground beneath it is starting to wobble and crack. Suddenly aware of the grave danger he has been presented with, Warren starts running toward the fence. The wind knocks him over and leaves him on his knees, gripping at the grass just to keep himself from flying away.  He turns toward the catastrophic scene, only to see something horrific: the lighthouse is being torn from the ground.

At this point, Warren is driven by sheer instinct. He collapses on his side and curls tightly in on himself, like he wants the mud to envelope him. His life moves in slow motion, like God themself told Warren “These are your last moments.” And then, the lighthouse ― a massive structure, that had held its ground for one hundred and thirty-five years ―  rips from its place in the Earth.

All Warren can do is watch as his impending death tumbles down and flies toward right toward him.

 

* * *

 

Warren’s eyes snap open and he jolts, inhaling sharply as he wakes up from the nightmare. He’s back in class, and, to his dismay, everyone is staring at him.

“Are you alright, Warren?” Mrs. Grant asks with that ‘confused but annoyed’ expression that teachers always have. There is a hint of concern in her voice, though, which makes Warren a tiny bit less embarrassed.

Someone behind Warren snickers. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Mrs. Grant accepts the answer and turns back to the class, explaining…. something. Usually, Warren would pay attention ― considering the fact that his Dad pays for attention-medicine, and Cosmology is one of his favorite favorite classes ― but he is way too out of it from that weird-ass dream. _‘Was that even a dream?’_ Warren stares out the window. The sky is clear. _‘Did I fall asleep?’_ Warren is sure he hadn’t been tired, and his head wasn’t down when he woke up. _‘Did I fall asleep sitting up?’_

Warren’s gaze drifts back to Mrs. Grant. He rubs his eyes and forces himself to tune in.

“...In 1952, Erwin Schrödinger gave a lecture that proposed the idea that different versions of reality exist, and that they are all happening at the same time. This proposal became known as the multiverse theory, and yes, it’s not just a sci-fi thing.” Warren is the only one who laughs. “There are a lot of variations to this theory, but the big idea is infinite realities with infinite versions of ourselves, our actions, and the world. So, for example ― if you follow this theory, then there’s a universe where I’m a supermodel.” Warren smiles when a few students chuckle, silently praising his teacher for making people that aren’t him laugh.

Someone that Warren doesn’t know taps him on the shoulder and hands him a folded up piece of paper. He takes it, and when Mrs. Grant isn’t looking, he unfolds the note and reads the message.

“Is there a universe where Warren isn’t a fag?”

Warren sighs and turns around in his chair. In the back corner, Zach and Logan are looking at him and snickering to themselves. More annoyed than hurt, Warren just rolls his eyes and turns back in his chair. He crumples up the note and shoves it somewhere in his backpack, never to be seen again.

The bell blares loudly, signaling the end of the day and therefore discarding everyone’s patience as they all rushed for the doorway. “Remember to read Chapter 5!” Mrs. Grant calls after her students, like half of them wouldn’t do it anyway.

At the end of the stampede of teenagers is Warren, because, come on, he’s only human―but also because he doesn’t want to keep Max waiting in the parking lot. Plus, he really wants to show off his new car.

“Warren, can I talk to you for a second?”

 _‘Dammit.’_ Warren thinks while he begrudgingly walks back to Mrs. Grant’s desk.

“What’s up, Mrs. Grant?” He asks casually.

“I wanted to talk to you about something―But I have to ask again, are you okay?”

Embarrassed, Warren blushes. “Oh,” He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I fell asleep somehow and had a bad dream. I was just spooked.”

Her expression softens. “Not enough sleep?”

“Yeah, I stayed up all night studying.” Warren lies, not wanting to make his teacher more worried. Not that it bothers him―he’s glad Mrs. Grant cares enough to ask. It’s nice to be close to a teacher, and the parental figure is more than welcome in his life.

“Big test today?”

“Yup.” Warren lies, again, which is not settling well with his stomach. “Anyway, what’d you wanna talk to me about?”

“Oh, I wanted to ask ―” She opens up a side drawer to her desk and shuffles through it. “Have you heard about the new security proposal?”

He has, vaguely. “The thing with the cameras?”

“Yes, well ― David Madsen wants to install security cameras all over campus. And not just in the hallways, everywhere. In classrooms, outside, in the parking lot, even in the dorms.”

“In the dorms? Is that even legal?”

“Technically, yes. Listen, I want students to be safe on campus just as much as anybody else. And with Rachel Amber disappearing…” She sighs. “This is just a huge invasion of privacy.”

“Yeah, that’s super messed up.” Warren tapped his foot anxiously, wanting to get out of the classroom.

“I agree. I actually made a petition to stop all of this ― if it gets enough signatures from the student body, they won’t pass it.” She pulls out a clipboard from the drawer and grabs a pen from her desk. “Would you like to sign?”

“Yeah, of course.”  

“Thank you so much, Warren. I knew you’d feel the same way about this as I do.” Smiling, she holds out the petition and Warren signs it quickly.

“Anything else you need, Mrs. G?”

“No, that’s all. Enjoy your night, Warren.”

“Yeah, you too. See you tomorrow, Mrs. Grant!” He’s out of the room before the end of his sentence.

The halls are loud and crowded as per usual. It gives Warren a bit of a headache, so he grabs his phone and earbuds from his back pocket, puts his earbuds in, picks a playlist, and puts his phone into his back pocket. The music drowns out the overwhelming mesh of voices, giving Warren a sense of security.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_For there'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

Warren weaves throughout the crowd, eyes darting from wall to wall, person to person. He doesn’t really know a lot of the students at Blackwell. It isn’t that he’s anti-social, he just… doesn’t really have a lot of friends. His closest friend and off campus neighbor is Stella, and then there’s Max ― even though they haven’t known each other for very long, he considers Max one of his closest friends. Then there’s Kate, and Brooke, and then Alyssa. There are some acquaintances, mostly Max’s friends that are nice to him when he’s around but otherwise don’t talk to him. Like Dana ― Dana is probably the only Vortex Club member that’s nice to him. And then, you have the rest of the student body, who either:

  1. Don’t know Warren exists
  2. Are dicks



Warren isn’t complaining, though. He could go without the constant bullying and overall douche-baggery, but he’s fine with being mostly invisible. He’s content with the friends he has, and as long as he has them, he’s just fine.

Speaking of which ― Warren grins when he sees none other than Max Caulfield at the other end of the hall.

“Hey, Mad Max!” Warren yells to her. Max stops suddenly, pulling out her earbuds as she looks around in confusion. Warren jogs to catch up with her, and when she sees the boy approaching, she looks…. shocked? Afraid? Warren can’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the way Max looks at him makes his stomach curl.

“Warren?” She says, looking up at him like he’s a ghost.

“What’s up?” He smiles through his anxiety.

“Um, nothing.” She glances behind herself, like she’s waiting for something to happen. Warren can’t help but flicker his gaze behind his new friends, wondering what she was looking for. “Listen, I’m kinda busy right now. Can I catch you later?”

“Uh, sure! We still on for the parking today?”

“Yup. I’ll meet you there in a little bit. See you.” And with that, Max speeds off, leaving Warren stiff and in a state of confusion. Why did she run off so quickly? And why did she look so afraid when she saw Warren? But there’s no reason for her to be scared of Warren, right?

Warren realizes he’s picking at his cuticles again and shoves his hands in his pockets. He shouldn’t make assumptions ― not to pull the ‘nice guy’ card, but Warren thinks he’s a pretty decent guy. And Max really did seem to enjoy spending time with him (maybe not exactly in the way Warren wants her to enjoy it, but Warren is sure their friendship is genuine) so Warren tells himself it’s just anxiety. He’ll ask Max if she’s okay later, when they meet in the parking lot.

Speaking of which ― he’s got some time before he’s supposed to meet Max for his flash-drive, and she seems busy anyway, so Warren figures he should probably go back to his room, put on some deodorant, and brush his hair. He knows it’s not a date or anything, and he’s just meeting her for a second to get his flash-drive back, but… well, can’t he want to look decent to see his good friend?

 _‘Yup. That’s it. No other reason.’_ Warren lies to himself as he heads for the exit.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Blackwell’s own ‘Dick of the Year’ recipient Nathan Prescott says as he angrily shoves through the front doors and then past Warren.

“Ow, shit!” Warren yelps instinctively as he makes contact with the wall beside him. For a second, Warren contemplates calling Nathan out on it, but decides against it when he sees him stomping down the hallway looking like he’s about to kill someone. Warren wonders why Nathan is only now coming to school after the last bell had already rang. And Warren hates to make assumptions, but Nathan is a weird, entitled, selfish, greedy prick who feeds off of other people’s pain ― so Warren thinks it’s safe to say that Nathan is _probably_ up to no good.

Or maybe he’s just salty about the fact that his arm still hurts from where Nathan pushed him into the wall, or even just because Nathan seems to seek out any opportunity to make Warren’s life slightly worse. Warren’s not sure what that guy’s problem is ― he’s just glad he only has one class with him: Chemistry, with Mrs. Grant. It’s one of his favorite classes, and Mrs. Grant is his favorite teacher, AND Nathan only shows up about half the time anyway; so Warren supposes it’s not so bad.

Sighing, Warren rubs his sore arm and pushes the doors open, bolting for the doors to subsequently pick at his face and mess with his hair for fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

 

Warren chews on his lower lip anxiously as he sits on the hood of his car. His new car, to be exact, that he was sort of looking forward to showing off to his friend. That is, if she ever shows up. Warren knows he shouldn’t be so impatient, and that being pushy usually just drives girls away ― but Max is twenty minutes late, so he swallows his pride and shoots her another text.

Ten minutes and no response later, Warren finally sees Max in the distance, jogging toward the boy. He slides off the roof of his car and smiles as his friend approaches him.

“Hey Warren, sorry I’m so late.” Max breathes heavily as she speaks. Did she run here?

“It’s cool. Maybe I’m just super early.” Warren grins, and Max gives a little smile as well. Warren’s heart flutters. “So, did you get the chance to watch anything?”

“Yeah, all of it.” Max says, still out of breath as she hands him the flashdrive. Warren blinks at it, and then looks back at Max.

“You seriously watched all of it? There are like… hundreds of movies on that thing. Not to mention TV shows.”

“What can I say? I have a lot of time on my hands.”

“Max, I lended you that thing, like, a week ago. It is physically impossible for you to have watched everything on that flashdrive.”

“I have my ways,” Max says simply. Warren raises both of his eyebrows at once and feels like Max might just be lying to make him feel better about himself. It really would be impossible to watch everything on that drive in a week. Even if Max didn’t eat, sleep, or go to school, it’d still be impossible. But Max is a good person, and Warren doesn’t think she’d purposely try to make him feel bad, so he decides to give her the benefit of the doubt and just go along with it.

“Really? You even watched Cannibal Holocaust?” Warren crosses his arms and grins at her. Even if he’s decided to trust her, he’ll still joke around and be a dick about it. That’s just who he is.

“Yup. Did you know that the director was arrested because a bunch of people thought he actually killed the actors for certain shots?”

“I ― yeah, actually. How do you know that?” Now, Warren _really_ doesn’t want to be the guy that questions a girl’s knowledge on things like trivia about movies and games or whatever, partially because it’s just a shitty thing to do and because that’s like an automatic friendzone ― but also, Warren was _just_ about to say the same thing! How did Max manage to beat him in saying a piece of movie trivia, especially about one so random and nasty? Maybe she really did watch every movie on that thing. Warren makes a mental note that Max might be a superhero.

“Like I said, I have my ways.” Max seats herself on the hood of his car, to which Warren decides to take a seat next to her. “So, new car?”

“Hell yeah!” Warren tries not to let it show how happy he is that Max noticed. “Well, not exactly new ― 1978 to be exact. Isn’t she a beaut?”

“Well, she definitely screams ‘Warren Graham’. Especially the X-Files license plate.”

Warren blushes. “I hope that’s a good thing?”

“It is.” Max smiles, looking at Warren. Warren imagines, for a second, that they stare into each other's eyes until one of them has the courage to lean in and close the distance between their lips. But daydreams are just daydreams, and Warren’s pretty sure Max doesn’t like him like that anyway. E] The weird thing is, Warren doesn’t really mind. Don’t get him wrong, he’s _really_ into Max, but he’s okay with the way things are right now. At the very least, Warren is just glad Max is his friend.

“Hey, Max ― were you okay earlier? You seemed kind of, I dunno, off?” Warren asks, remembering the odd encounter from earlier. Max’s face seems to droop a little bit, which subsequently tugs at Warren’s heartstrings. Dammit, he’s got it bad.

“Oh, right. Yeah, I was fine. I’m just dealing with some stuff right now.” She keeps it vague, and the way she looks down at her knees nervously makes Warren think he shouldn’t pry.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Warren says, plain but sympathetic. “If you wanna talk about it, I’m here.” He thinks for a second, and then adds on to his statement. “You don’t have to though. I get it if it’s, like, super personal or something.”

“Thanks, Warren. You’re always so sweet.” Now, that’s just unfair ― Warren can’t help but turn what is surely a shade of bright, bright red. “It’s just, um… kinda complicated. Maybe I’ll get into it someday, but I honestly just don’t want to think about it right now.”

“That’s cool, I get that. Um, I’m sure it’ll all turn out okay. Sorry I can’t give much better advice.” He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck again. At this rate, he’ll rub the skin right off. To combat his nervous habit, Warren makes two tight fists at his side and tries to appear as casual as possible. At this rate, with his medication wearing off, sitting still like this is basically torture. He doesn’t want to seem weird in front of his crush, though, so he grinds his teeth together and puts on the best smile he can.

“It’s fine, I didn’t give you much to go off of.” Max laughs softly, looking away again. Warren really wants to pry more ― he’s not nosy, he’s just… very curious. But he knows better, so he changes the subject after a few awkward beats.

“So something totally weird happened when I was leaving.” Warren says, and Max looks at him with interest. “I was walking out of the main doors when Nathan Prescott comes in and shoves right past me. He was all like, ‘get the fuck out of my way!’, you know how Nathan is. I was gonna bitch him out about it, cause he kinda hurt my arm, y’know, but when I turned around he was stomping down the hall. I could only see his back, but I can tell when Nathan’s out for blood.” He laughs, but Max just looks at him like she’s confused about something.

“You saw Nathan?” Max asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah…?” Warren replies, confused. He wonders why she seems so concerned with Nathan’s whereabouts. Sure, Warren would prefer to actively avoid him if given the chance, but it’s not like the kid is supposed to be dead, right? “Like I said, he had just come in. Why?”

“Oh. Nothing, I just… he wasn’t here today, so I was wondering.” She looks like she wants to say something else, but with how weird she’s acting, Warren decides not to ask (even though he really, really wants to). So they just stand there again, staring ahead of themselves. Every so often, Warren glances at Max, and every so often, Warren notices that she keeps looking around. It’s like earlier, like she’s waiting for something to happen.

“Hey, Warren?” She says, after a minute of painful silence.

“Yeah?” Warren replies, feeling uncomfortable with how they keep reverting to silence. It’s awkward, and not to mention weird, since him and Max can usually talk for hours without stopping. It’s just… off.

“Do you ever feel like something isn’t right? Um, like…” Max puts her hands up to gesture. Warren briefly notes that she’s looking at her hands, at something that isn’t there. “Like something is supposed to happen, but it doesn’t? And you’re not even sure what you’re missing, but something… something feels different.”

Warren thinks about the question for a moment. By all means, the answer is yes. Warren constantly feels weird ― like earlier, in class, when he had that weird dream. Then, the little things, like some part of his routine being thrown off, or the feeling of déjà vu. And the way Max phrases it makes Warren sure he knows exactly what feeling she’s talking about. But, at the same time, it just makes him infinitely more confused.

“I think so.” Warren decides on, crossing his arms as he thinks. “Weird shit happens all the time, though, right? I mean, half of life is just dodging whatever weird shit gets thrown at you. Like today in class, I fell asleep and had this bizzaro dream. I was walking up to the lighthouse during this crazy storm. And when I got up the hill, the wind was so strong that it ripped the lighthouse right out of the dirt and fucking crushed me to death! I mean, I assume it crushed me to death. I woke up before it technically hit me. But like, I don’t even remember falling asleep in class. And I was sitting up when I woke up. So I don’t know.”

“You had a dream. About a storm?” Max asks, looking at him with another unreadable expression. She seems to be throwing a lot of those his way nowadays.

He nods. “Weird, right?”

“Right.” Max looks off again. Warren wishes he could read minds. “Weird.”

“Maybe it’s a warning,” Warren jokes, trying to lighten the weirdly somber mood. “Like, Arcadia Bay is heading toward impending doom and I’m the only one that can save it.” He laughs.

“Maybe you are.” Max says, again in that absent-minded-but-hiding-something-tone. He contemplates trying his luck again and asking Max what’s going on, but before he can, she speaks up again. “Anyway, here’s your flash-drive.” As she fishes the drive out of her pocket, Warren blinks wearily at her. This day has been so weird, he had briefly forgotten why Max and him were talking by his car in the first place. Or maybe that was just his terrible, ADHD-induced memory problems. Or both. Probably both.

“Shit, that’s right.” Warren takes the flash-drive from Max and puts it in his front pocket. The brief hand-to-hand contact makes his heart flutter. “Thanks, Maximus Prime. I owe you one.”

“Are you kidding? I owe you one. Those movies were awesome.”

“You mean, the hundreds of movies you managed to watch in a week?” He teases, elbowing her in the arm playfully. She grins.

"Are you calling me a liar?”

“I ain’t calling you a truther!” Warren laughs, much harder than Max’s (very cute) soft giggles.

“Okay, I walked into that one.” She takes out her phone, seemingly checking the time before putting it back in her pocket. “I have to run. I’ll catch you later, okay?” Max proceeds to give Warren a hug, which he definitely was _not_ expecting. Not that he’s complaining! But it catches him so off-guard that he almost forgets to hug back.

“Yeah, for sure.” Warren says, awkwardly hugging his friend back. The hug doesn’t last long, though, much to Warren’s dismay. And as Max runs off with a wave and a smile, he mentally berates himself for having no game.

 

* * *

 

 **[12:03 AM] Mad Max** : Hey, I need to tell you something

Warren rolls over in bed as he feels around for where his phone is. He unplugs it to look at it (because his cord is just short enough to be annoying) and groans at the brightness of his phone as he turns it on. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds and then opens them, letting his eyes adjust to the light. When he looks at the notification, the phrase ‘I need to tell you something’ makes his heart both drop and jump in anxiety and joy respectively.

 **[12:04 AM] Warren:** What’s up?

 **[12:04 AM] Mad Max:** Do you remember the girl I was telling you about a few days ago?

 **[12:05 AM] Warren:** Blue hair girl? Chloe?

Yes, Warren does remember Max telling him about Chloe, as well as showing him pictures of her, and telling stories about her from their childhood. Apparently, they’d been best friends before Max had moved to Seattle, and then reunited when Max moved back to go to Blackwell. Warren remembers Max telling him that ‘it’s like nothing ever changed’. He’s never met Chloe, but he can’t help but feel a ping of jealousy knowing how close she is with Max. Not that he’s jealous of her, per se, but he’d probably call Max his best friend if Chloe hadn’t already claimed the title.

 **[12:05 AM] Mad Max:** Yes

 **[12:05 AM] Warren:** What about her?

Contrary to the quick replies from before, Max doesn’t respond for a good ten minutes or so. Warren’s almost fallen asleep again by the time he feels his phone vibrate on his chest.

 **[12:14 AM] Mad Max:** She’s my girlfriend.

Warren sits up in his bed, feeling his chest tighten. He unlocks his phone to look at the message rather than just taking the notification for what it is, in hopes that the message was cut off and ‘she’s my girlfriend’ is followed by ‘just kidding’ or something else totally improbable ― unfortunately for Warren, it is what it is. Max is dating someone, a girl someone, Chloe, who is infinitely better than Warren in every way. He swallows thickly as he forces himself to reply. Despite everything, Max is still one of his closest friends, and he doesn’t want to come off as a dick.

 **[12:16 AM] Warren:** That’s awesome! Good for you guys

Hot tears start to pool in his eyes. He lets them spill, even though it makes him feel sort of pathetic.

 **[12:16 AM] Warren:** So are you like… y’know

 **[12:17 AM] Mad Max:** A lesbian? :p

 **[12:17 AM] Warren:** I’m just curious!

 **[12:17 AM] Warren:** I don’t have a problem with it or anything

 **[12:17 AM] Mad Max:** Haha, it’s okay, you’re allowed to ask

 **[12:18 AM] Mad Max:**  Anyway IDK, I don’t think I’m gay. I guess I’m bi or something.

The confirmation of Max’s sexuality is a double blow for Warren, and at this point, he can’t help but to _really_ start crying. He really doesn’t have a problem with Max’s sexuality, and he supposes her being bisexual still _sort of_ means he has a chance ― anyway, that’s not the reason he’s upset. He’s heartbroken, of course, but… there’s something inside of him, something he’s felt since he was very young, that he’s never had the courage to confront. He doesn’t like admitting it to himself, but deep down, Warren knows he’s attracted to men. He’ll try to convince himself he’s straight, but saying it outloud always feels like a lie. And the fact that Max can just _say_ it, makes Warren feel all the more crushed.

 **[12:20 AM] Warren:** That’s really great, Max

 **[12:20 AM] Warren:** I’m happy for you

He is, sort of, in a weird way. It’s not like he wants Chloe and Max to break up. From what he’s heard about her, she seems… well, pretty fucking awesome. And that just solidifies how much better Chloe is than him. He wasn’t jealous before, at least, he tried not to be, and he doesn’t want to be now, but he just can’t help it. Chloe Price is everything Warren isn’t:  a badass, sexy, punk-rock, blue-haired stoner chick. It’s clear the two are polar opposites, and it makes Warren wonder how he ever thought he had a chance.

Speaking of chances ― Warren had bought tickets to a drive-in a few towns over specifically for him and Max. He had it all planned out, too ― he’d have put his arm around her, and if he was feeling ballsy, maybe he’d have tried to kiss her. Of course, he hasn’t actually asked Max yet, so he had some backups planned: he could ask Brooke or Stella, maybe even Kate. Originally, he was mostly just excited about the maraton itself. Now, he’s too depressed to picture himself even going.

 **[12:21 AM] Warren:** Anyway I gotta bounce. You know I need that beauty sleep.

 **[12:21 AM] Mad Max:** Okay. See you tomorrow :)

 **[12:21 AM] Mad Max:** Thanks for being such a good friend.

 **[12:22 AM] Warren:** No problem

Warren puts his phone on Do Not Disturb, plugs it back in, and cries himself to sleep.

He dreams of a storm.


	2. Frontier Psychiatrist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for weed smoking and detailed descriptions of past self harm (scars) in this chapter.
> 
> I cranked this out WAY faster than I thought I would. I think I did pretty good, except it's nearly 3 am here, so if there are any mistakes please tell me haha. I also apologize for the lack of Warren in this chapter, but as I was writing this chapter sort of just became a continued prologue from Nathan's perspective. Plus, I had a lot of exposition to get through, jeez. I promise Warren and Nathan will start interacting next chapter!!! 
> 
> Also, quick thing - if you didn't notice, I'm naming all the chapters after a suiting song. I strongly recommend you check them out. Today's song is by The Avalanches, and it is incredibly fitting for a Nathan-centric chapter. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLrnkK2YEcE
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy chapter 2! :)
> 
> Edit 4/8/19: I went through this and edited it a bit! Boy howdy, I sure do make a lot of random mistakes when it's 3 am. Should be all fixed now!

_That boy needs therapy._

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Nathan doesn’t notice, nor does he care whom he shoves past to get through the front entrance to Blackwell Academy. He’s pissed, royally pissed, because he had planned on taking a day off from this hellscape―but urgent matters have forced him to disrupt his well-needed mental health day.

When he reaches his destination and throws open the door, he is met with an already frustratingly unphased Mark Jefferson. He just sighs, like he already knows why Nathan has stormed into his classroom, and he’s already annoyed by him.

It doesn’t keep Nathan from blowing the lid, though.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he yells at the man, surely drawing attention from anyone lingering nearby. Good. He wants Mark to be afraid of him, even if it’s just fear of his temper and impulsiveness. It’s something.

“What now, Nathan?” The man says, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“A ‘C’? A fucking ‘C’? Are you fucking kidding me?!” Nathan near shrieks in anger, referencing an assignment in advanced photography he had turned in a few days ago. The subject had been ‘joy’  and, after a very long hike in the woods with Victoria, he’d found a rabbit carcass with its guts spilling out near a small patch of flowers. After some hasty (and nauseating) repositioning, he had gotten what he considered a lovely and morbid take on the subject. Although it’s not the reality of the poor creature’s death, the photograph depicted the rabbit dying surrounded by beauty. Nathan had been proud of the piece, and when he’d checked his grades a few minutes ago and saw that he’d gotten not even a ‘B’, but a fucking ‘C’ on the project—well, it filled him with (probably irrational) rage.

“This is about your grades, I assume?” Mark says, turning around in his desk chair to face the boy in question.

“Yes it’s about my fucking grades!” Nathan barks. “You know I’m better than everyone in that dumb fucking class!” A lie, mostly. Nathan finds that false-confidence really helps his image. Without his miraculous ability to lie about who he is, he would be nothing.

“Maybe if you’d stop yelling ‘fuck’ so often, we’d actually get somewhere with this conversation.” He leans back in his chair, casually, like he’s bored. It makes Nathan livid.

“FUCK YOU! Seriously! Fucking talk to me!” Nathan screams, loud enough that he _knows_ someone must have noticed by now.

“For the love of God, Nathan, shut your mouth.” From the subtlety of his teeth grinding and the way his fists tighten, Nathan can tell that Jefferson is breaking. Not in the same way that he breaks, because when he breaks, he _really_ breaks—Mark has his own version of a collapse. It’s more or less just rage, sometimes violent—but it’s something. And Nathan is the only one who can bring that out of him. It makes him sort of proud, in a way that makes him feel sad and disgusted.

Still, Nathan obeys the command, clamping his mouth shut and grinding his teeth until it hurts. Tears start to well up in his eyes. _Pathetic. Psycho. Fucking loser._

“Why did you give me a ‘C’?” Nathan asks, through his teeth. He balls up his hands right next to his sides and clenches hard enough that he feels his nails digging into his skin.

“Because,” Jefferson says, straightening himself as he prepares to deliver what will surely be a painful lecture. “You ignored the prompt to make what I’m sure you believed to be an ‘edgy, ironic’ take on ‘joy’. It’s overdone, Nathan, and frankly, I’m disappointed.”

Disappointed. _Disappointed_. The word stings harder than any insult, any bruise. Nathan is positive that Jefferson knows this, just like he knows all of Nathan’s weaknesses.

Despite everything, when Mark sees Nathan’s dejected expression and the tears that have started running down his cheeks, something in his expression softens. Nathan hates it.

“Look, Nathan. It’s a great piece on its own. But I have to grade by the rubric, and you just didn’t meet the criteria.” Somehow, Nathan hates the sympathetic teacher act more than who Mark truly is. He still can’t help but relish in the moment of normalcy. “You know I’m the last person to judge the art of the macabre. But I’m your teacher first, mentor second. Aren’t I?”

Nathan wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Those are the same thing.”

“You and I both know they’re not,” Mark says darkly. Nathan shoves his hands into his pockets. He unclenches his fists, and then clenches them again. Unclench, clench. Unclench, clench.

“Whatever.” Nathan looks at his feet, watching how they shuffle back and forth.

Jefferson stares at him for awhile. “Anything else?”

“No.”

Mr. Jefferson simply rolls his eyes and turns back in his desk. Nathan takes the action as permission to leave, so he does, very quickly. For prosperity, he slams the door on his way out. He sees Mr. Madsen, the psycho fucking security guard that’s always following him around. But Madsen knows he can’t touch Nathan ― so he just stands there, arms crossed, with a sour expression. In a moment of immaturity, Nathan sticks his tongue out at the porn-stached douche and flips him the bird ― the douche in question scoffs in response.

Realizing he sort of needs to take a piss, and also because he’s getting _really_ tired of that dick staring at him ― he ducks into the boys bathroom, heads to a urinal, relieves himself, and washes his hands. As he looks in the mirror, Nathan feels… weird. Which isn’t exactly uncommon for him, considering the myriad of fuck-knows-what roaming around in his mind: but this is a different kind of weird. It’s a weird that Nathan isn’t sure he’s felt before, and that’s saying something, because Nathan has felt _a lot_ of weird.

The best he can describe it is: he feels like something is going to happen, something really bad, something terrible. It’s definitely some sort of extreme paranoia, because Nathan is, well, extremely fucking paranoid ― but it’s like, something is supposed to be happening, but isn’t. _You’re missing something, idiot. What did you forget this time?_

He wipes his hands down with a paper towel, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it into the trash. He notices his heart beating faster, so he leans forward and grips the porcelain white sink so hard his knuckles turn the same color.

“Pull yourself together, Nathan. You’re good. We’re all good.” It’s weird, Nathan knows it’s weird, but sometimes talking to himself just sort of… helps? It’s better with someone else’s voice, but it’s comforting to hear a voice outloud, a voice he _knows_ is real. “Just… count to three. Close your eyes, count to three, and then you’ll be okay. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Heeding his own advice, Nathan shuts his eyes tightly.

“One.”

_Nothing is going to happen._

“Two…”

_Nothing is going to happen_

“Thr―”

Nathan jumps at least a foot into the air when the door opens, when he turns to see a perplexed Hayden Jones. He inhales sharply and then lets out a deep sigh of relief.

“You good, bro?” Hayden says, eyebrow raised.

Out of everyone who could have walked in on him in that moment, Nathan is glad it was Hayden. He’s not close to a lot of people, and the only friend of his that really knows the extent of his mental issues is Victoria, Hayden is probably his next closest friend. He doesn’t know nearly as much as Victoria does, but Nathan knows that Hayden’s always got his back, even if he can’t really explain certain things sometimes.

“Yeah,” Nathan breathes, feeling paralyzed for a few seconds before he finally gets a grip. He straightens himself and runs a hand through his hair. “You just scared the shit out of me, that’s all.”

“What, you trying to get high in here or something?”.

“Yeah, you see the lines of coke on my big white dick?” Hayden laughs. Nathan does not. Despite his joke, his heart is beating at his chest like it’s trying to escape, a la ‘Alien’. He tries catching his breath as he leans back against the sink, shutting his eyes. Nathan hates how easily he gets like this, especially when Hayden is _right there_ and probably thinks he’s such a fucking freak—

“Nate?” Seemingly concerned, Hayden grips his friend’s shoulder comfortingly. It’s not much, but the physical contact helps Nathan stay grounded before he has the chance to spiral.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hayden asks, when Nathan opens his eyes.

“I said I’m fucking fine,” He snaps, out of instinct.

“Okay, Jesus.” Hayden puts his hands up defensively, and Nathan instantly feels guilty. He looks at the door, and then back at Hayden.

“I gotta go.” With that, Nathan bolts out the bathroom door and promptly the main exit. He thinks he hears a “Nate-“ from behind him and maybe something else, though he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter; Nathan just needs to get out of this building, now. He’ll text Hayden later, because he really does feel bad for snapping at him like that and then darting off. An apology and some bullshit excuse about being tweaked out should do, although he’s sure Hayden knows he’s fucked up. Everybody knows. How could they not?

Quickly, Nathan reaches the boys’ dormitory, and as he opens the doors, he hears a voice yelling for him to wait up. He turns his head and sees Dana jogging to catch up with him.

“Thanks,” Dana says as Nathan holds the door open for her to come in. She’s technically not supposed to be here, but he didn’t care. He visits Victoria all the time in her dorm, so why should he?

“Yup.” Nathan steps inside and starts walking to his room. Dana is headed in the same direction, so he figures a little small talk wouldn’t hurt. “You fuckin’ someone?”

“Oh my God, Nate!” Dana rolls her eyes, but she still smiles. “No, for your information, I’m not here to screw anybody. I have a project for Advanced English, and Trevor is my partner, so we’re working on it in his room.”

It’s a believable story, but Nathan swears she’s blushing. “Yeah? What’s the project about, 50 Shades of Grey?”

That one earns him a hearty punch in the arm. “Shut up!” Dana says, grinning. Nathan smirks.

“I’ll catch you later, dick.” Dana jokes as they approach Trevor’s room.

She stops at his door and knocks, while Nathan keeps walking and yells after her, “Use a condom!” Trevor opens the door and looks at Nathan, then at Dana, who is hiding her face in her hands from embarrassment.

Nathan reaches his room, marked by the whiteboard with “The Prescotts rule this town” written on it in big red letters. He opens the door and, after closing it behind him, sighs deeply. He’s glad to finally be in his room, alone and unbothered at last. It’s not that he was an introvert exactly, but some days he just prefers to be alone. This is one of those days.

Plus, this way, he doesn’t have to wear so many layers. Contrary to popular belief, Nathan is not cold-blooded. He does get hot, and he definitely sweats. Speaking of which—Nathan slips off his jacket, cardigan, button-up, and finally his undershirt, the former two of which he hangs up, while the latter two are thrown into his hamper.

He grabs a black t-shirt with a small embroidered rose on the breast pocket. He sighs quietly as he pulls the shift over his head, loving the feeling of soft cotton on his chest not weighed down by all the layers he usually wears.

Nathan twists his body one way, and then the other. He rolls his head around and pulls each of his arms over his chest, relishing in the feeling of cracking them all. As he cracks his knuckles, he can’t help but drift his gaze to his arms. Thick, protruding scars litter his pale flesh, from the very base of his wrists to where his shoulder begins. Some are as recent as a few weeks ago, while others date back as early as the seventh grade. He’s not proud of them, and even looking at them himself makes him feel pathetic. But an addiction is an addiction, and Nathan doesn’t care about himself enough to stop.

He forces himself to look away and decides he might as well go full-relaxed mode. So he kicks off his pants and puts them with the rest of his laundry, and replaces them with a pair of black joggers instead. Finally at peak comfort, Nathan lets himself fall onto his swivel chair, twirling around slowly and aimlessly before he turns to face his computer.

Though Nathan wouldn’t normally consider schoolwork a relaxing activity, photography his passion and therefore the exception. And he’s got to photoshop some pictures for class, so he figures he might as well. First, though, the essentials. Facebook comes first: he’s got quite a few notifications, all from posts he’s tagged in about the last Vortex Party.

He scrolls mindlessly through pictures of people he mostly doesn’t care about. A group picture here, a drunk selfie there. Occasionally, when he sees the profile of a Vortex Club member, he’ll give it a like (as was customary) but besides that, he just lurks.

A little before halfway down the page, the thumbnail of a video he recognizes too well catches his eye. The preview shows a blurry, static image of Kate Marsh — a quiet, religious girl that was the subject of Jefferson’s most recent project — throwing herself onto Logan. The thumbnail makes it look like she was trying to kiss him, and as for the footage itself, it doesn’t look conspicuous; but Nathan is pretty sure she had just stumbled forward and into guys’ chests a few times on accident. And as for the kissing, Nathan is positive that those guys had just assumed she was coming onto them and immediately started making out with her — that is, if you consider assaulting someone’s mouth with your tongue while they just stood there barely realizing what was happening ‘making out’.

And that’s the thing: Nathan hates how easy it is for him to do this. He hates that he can just _do_ this for Mark, drug girls and haul them barely conscious to the Dark Room. Nathan doesn’t know if he’s just really good at it or if it’s just that no one notices, no one cares. Nathan isn’t sure which one makes him feel more sick. It’s not that Nathan _wants_ go to to jail, but he deserves to. He’s a horrible person, a demon, a _monster_ for what he does to these girls. He hates himself for it, hates himself for getting himself wrapped up in Jefferson’s game in the first place. But now, he was stuck, when all he’d wanted in the first place was a mentor.

“What the fuck!” Nathan had screamed when he’d walked down to the once innocent Dark Room only to see a girl he’d seen around school, drugged and bound, lying on the floor in front of the studio lights. That night, he had yelled, sobbed, begged on his knees for Mark to stop, to let the girl go, to let _him go._ He spent that night sitting on his bedroom floor vomiting into a trash can, with a broken arm and a bruised torso. And when faced with the same outcome each time he protested, once nearly resulting in his death — and being too deep in Stockholm Syndrome to call the police as well as fear for own arrest, Nathan decided that his life was over. Whether it ended from Mark, himself, or some other goddamn reason — in a few years, he would either be rotting in the ground or rotting in jail. He doesn’t like it, but he’s accepted it; until then, he’ll just go through the motions, turn off his brain and do what Mark tells him to.

Nathan shakes himself out of his thoughts and pushes them far, far back down where they belong. So he closes Facebook, and decides to check his email instead.

Being the primary source of income for the Vortex Club (besides Victoria), a lot of his unread emails are just receipts from Amazon. Party decorations, rolling papers, stereos, fog machines, hell — even just basic shit like a whiteboard and markers. Although he  certainly shows it less than Vic, he does care about the club. And not just the parties, either. Vortex Club is basically just a student council with benefits, so it’s actually nice to contribute something positive to the world every once in awhile.

He hears a ping come from his speaker, and then, _it_ pops up on the screen _._ ‘It’ is an email from a teacher, Mrs. Grant specifically, with a subject that reads “Concern for your grades”.

“Fucking shit,” Nathan breathes, stomach dropping to what feels like the floor. Despite what everything thinks (and what Nathan says), he gives a shit about his grades. He knows he doesn’t have to be, considering his situation, but somewhere deep inside of him there’s this crazy pipe dream that somehow, everything will be okay. He’ll graduate, move across the country, go to a prestigious art school and never carry the weight of being a Prescott again.

But dreams are just dreams, and Nathan’s are unachievable.

It doesn’t mean the message doesn’t fill him with dread and anxiety. Though he knows he has to click the email eventually, so he swallows thickly and hovers the mouse over it. After a second, he opens it.

 

**Subject:** Concern for your grades

**From: Michelle Grant**

<[ MichelleG@BlackwellAcademy.edu ](mailto:MichelleG@BlackwellAcademy.edu)>

**To: Nathan Prescott**

<[ NathanP@BlackwellAcademy.edu ](mailto:NathanP@BlackwellAcademy.edu)>

Nathan ― I’m disappointed to see that you clearly have no interest in keeping your grades up. I’ve tried to be patient with you, because I understand that you have not been in great mental health. However, you have refused to try in my class since the the beginning of the semester, despite our various conversations about your attendance, lack of interest during class, lack of turned in assignments, and lack of participation during class activities.

I need to remind you that if your grades continue to suffer, you will put yourself at risk of losing your full scholarship. I know that your family is wealthy enough to pay for your spot here at Blackwell, but I also know that you are deeply proud of your full-ride and I don’t want to see you suffer when you inevitably lose it.

You are full of potential, Nathan. Don’t kid yourself ― you are an incredibly smart individual. I know that you can do better than this. Principal Wells and I have spoken, and we have agreed that because you will not improve your grades on your own, you will be required to see a tutor. You may do your homework during tutoring sessions, which will be in my room after school every week day from 3 to 4:30. I will be supervising from my desk.

Your tutor will more than likely be Warren Graham, due to his high academic performance. I have not spoken with him yet, but I am confident he will agree because your father, having expressed his concern for your performance in school, wants to pay him for the tutoring. I am not sure if I am supposed to tell you this, however, I think it will benefit everyone if we are transparent regarding this situation..

I will be emailing him after sending this, and right after school tomorrow I’d like the both of you to stay after to go over it. Because tomorrow is Friday, the tutoring sessions will begin on Monday. If you avoid this or skip any sessions in the future, I am obligated to notify your father.

See you tomorrow,

Mrs. Grant

 

As Nathan reads the email, eyes drifting from left to right wildly, his heart starts to beat against his chest like a jackhammer. “Fuck,” He says, to nobody in particular. “Fuck!” Nathan jumps out of his chair and starts to pace around his room, threading his fingers through his hair and balling up his fists. Sean Prescott going against his son’s back was definitely not unheard of ― but still, it gets him _every fucking time._ Nathan inhales sharply, and exhales half a second later. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. _Calm down you dumb fucking psychopath. You got yourself into this, didn’t you? This is your fault. You’re so fucking pathetic, you can’t even keep the one fucking thing you managed to accomplish._

Nathan squeezes his fists in his hair tighter, letting it hurt. He shakes his head rapidly, trying to shake the voices out of his head. “FUCK!” This time, he screams it, with all the rage and panic he feels. And in that rage, he remembers something from the email: Warren Graham.

Warren would be the one to tutor him. And Mrs. Grant hasn’t even talked to him about it, and somewhere deep in Nathan’s most rational mind he knows that it isn’t his fault, but at the front of his brain, he doesn’t care. He needs to latch onto anything he can take out his emotions on ― it can’t be Principal Wells or Mrs. Grant, because apparently, this whole thing was orchestrated by his _fucking_ father. Like always. And on top of that, Sean knows his son is so insufferable that he’s _buying out_ another goddamn student to tutor him.

So Nathan latches.

Facial features darkening with blind rage, he throws on a cardigan and doesn’t even bother to put his shoes on before storming out of his room to confront the boy who lived right across from him.

Nathan pounds on the door. “Open up, fuckhead!” He yells. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone peek their head out of their room and quickly duck back in and shut the door. After a second of no response, he continues to knock vigorously on the door.

“I said, get out of your fucking room!” Still no response. “Don’t play this fucking game with me, Gayram! I’ll beat your goddamn ass!” Again, no response. Nathan groans when he realizes Warren might not even be there. But he really, _really_ needs to take his anger out on something right now, so he grabs the doorknob and turns.

To his surprise, it’s already unlocked. Which makes it easy, because Nathan didn’t really feel like breaking a doorknob right now. Not wanting to be interrupted, he shuts the door behind him quietly. Maybe he’ll trash it, or find some weird shit to blackmail him into telling Mrs. Grant he won’t tutor Nathan, no matter how much fucking money he’s getting from Nathan’s shithead father. It isn’t the same satisfaction as punching someone in the face a few times, but it’s something.

Taking in the room, Nathan notices immediately that, yup, this is _definitely_ the room of a geek like Warren. His bed lies in the back right corner, covered by a blanket with this weird triangle symbol Nathan thinks he’s seen in some nerdy Nintendo game. He has a few throw blankets, one with a bunch of little NASA logos and the other a dark-green plaid. His bed is drowning in pillows, even a few stuffed animal looking things that Nathan can only assume are from something lame. A little table with an old, shitty looking CRT TV covered in stickers is right at the edge of his bed, with a comfy but old looking chair and a bean bag facing it. Against the back wall and facing the window, is his desk ― Nathan’s got to admit, his double-monitor setup is actually pretty impressive. His desk is littered with action figures and other nerdy memorabilia that Nathan doesn’t understand the references to.  Really, his entire room is littered with nerd shit. Every shelf had at least one piece of nerdy shit, but his bedroom was also covered in books. A metric shit-ton of comics, but also a lot of classics, Nathan notes, as he snoops around and looks through Warren’s shit. He sighs. Nothing of interest yet. It makes Nathan hopes that he isn’t learning about this fucker for nothing. `

Something that really catches Nathan eye is the amount of posters in Warren’s room. To his surprise, some of them are actually pretty good. There are posters from movies Nathan hasn’t seen and assumes are stupid, like Indiana Jones, Star Wars, and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World ― but then Nathan takes notice of some of the… less PG posters displayed proudly on Warren’s wall. Like the poster for Suspiria, a 70’s horror movie that Nathan loves for its cinematography. This poster in particular has the name of the movie in the center over a large pool of blood with eyes shining through it. It’s creepy, and hung right above his bed. Even racier, there’s an Evil Dead poster hanging by his desk, which depicts an illustration of a woman in a low cut, lacy, and very ripped tank top coming up from the ground, reaching out with a mutilated hand wrapped around her throat and pulling her down into the Earth. It’s sort of fucked up, and honestly, even though he hasn’t seen the movie, Nathan would probably hang the same one in his room.

Nathan forces himself to stop thinking positively of this kid, not wanting to gain any respect for him. So he continues to snoop ― through his clothes, his closet, even under his bed.

There are a few things that capture Nathan’s attention for more than a second: first, he’s got pictures taped to his wall, a few of him and Max. Figures he’d have the hots for a pretentious hipster that’s still somehow out of his league. There’s a framed photograph on his desk that has a younger looking Warren, an older man and woman that are presumably his parents, and a guy that looks like he’s in his twenties, probably a sibling or something. They’re all smiling with their arms around each other, and they’re standing in front of what Nathan thinks is the Grand Canyon.

It makes him sick how happy they look.

_You’re jealous, aren’t you?_

“No, I’m not fucking jealous!” Nathan snaps at the voice. He looks at the picture in his hands and squeezes the frame until his knuckles turn white, and then, impulsively, he throws it on the ground face-first and hears the satisfying noise of glass shattering.

It helps his anger, but it doesn’t really help anything else. If his father is involved with this, Nathan is fucked. He sighs softly and kicks the picture over, observing the broken glass on the floor and photograph. He sort of wants to take a picture of it, but he figures going to get his camera would be an unnecessary risk of getting caught that he doesn’t need to take. He looks around again, and in realizing he didn’t really have it in him to trash his room any further ― the broken picture would probably be enough to at least put Warren off ― he silently declares that his work is done. So he makes his way to the door, but when he walks an open bag, something orange makes him do a double take.

Crouching on the floor, Nathan peeks open to the bag to see if his suspicions were confirmed ― and there it is. An orange medication bottle, with the label poorly torn off. He brings the bottle up to his face, shaking it around a little to try and see what was inside. The pills were a pretty standard size, orange on one side and clear on the other, with balls of whatever drug it was inside. Nathan briefly struggles with the child safety cap before opening it, pouring a few into his palm and poking at them with his pointer finger. Squinting, Nathan sees the words ‘Adderall XR’ and ‘30 mg’ printed on the plastic capsule.

“Fuckin jackpot,” Nathan mumbles to himself. Judging by the ripped-off label, this was not a prescribed drug ― which means Blackwell’s academic prodigy is buying and taking it recreationally, probably to stay wired and alert during school (which Nathan has definitely not done before, what?). Either way, it was very illegal and would probably snatch that scholarship right out of Warren’s grimy little hands. Hell, it might even get him expelled ― it’s the perfect blackmail. Grinning, Nathan takes out his phone and sets the bottle back into the bag, standing up and backing up to get an angle that shows what room the bag is in. He takes another photo of the bottle in the bag itself, a photo of the bottle on the floor, and a photo of a few of the pills to show what they are. Nathan pockets a few before sealing the bottle and slipping into his pocket.

He peeks into the bag again to see another bottle of pills ― “Goddamn, nerd. Not as innocent as everyone thinks you are, huh?” Nathan murmurs. But upon looking at the bottle, he sees that yes, it does have a label, and yes, it is a prescription. He’s almost disappointed until he sees the word “Carbamazepine” and his heart, just for a moment, softens. Nathan was on that shit for awhile when his doctors thought he was bipolar ― maybe he still is, he doesn’t fucking know ― and he remembers it being pretty brutal for awhile. Vomiting, dizziness, being out of it all the time; it sucked, and to Nathan’s annoyance, it makes him have a little more respect for the kid. Not too much, though. Just a little sympathy respect. 

Nathan puts the bottle back in its place, knowing if he took it away it would have serious consequences for Warren. Nathan doesn’t really like him, but he would never intentionally take someone’s medication, that they actually _need._ He wouldn’t even do that to his worst enemy.

(Although, his worst enemy these days seems to be himself.)

Quietly, he slips out of Warren’s room. And because Nathan just can’t resist, he erases the geek shit on his whiteboard, and writes ‘Beta phag virgin desperate for sex ― call Warren for a good time’ in blue marker. Satisfied with the statement, Nathan quickly heads inside his room, conveniently located right across the hall.

He shrugs off his cardigan and hangs it up again before slipping the pill bottle into his own bag. As for the ones he’d taken for himself, he fishes them out of his pocket and finds a random empty pill bottle of one of his prescribed meds, places them inside, and sets it with the rest of his medication bottles on his shelf. God knows no one would notice, considering the myriad of medications he’s been prescribed. Not that he takes all of them, of course, to Mark’s request and also for his own sanity. He’s pretty sure his doctor is just conspiring with his father anyway to try and keep him sedated all the time. Jokes on them; Nathan learned a long time ago how to keep any semblance of control in his life. So when he doesn’t want to take a dose, which is a lot of the time, he’ll flush a pill down the toilet. No one notices, no one bitches at him further than expressing suspicion, because there’s no proof. It makes Nathan feel like he has a say in what happens to him, even though he knows very well he doesn’t. At least he has this.

Needing to be stoned out of his mind as soon as possible, Nathan opens his underwear drawer and fishes out a mason jar full of weed, a silver grinder, a white lighter a la Kurt Cobain, a Rick and Morty themed rolling tray, and finally, some rolling papers. He falls back on his bed, sighing in comfort for a moment before scooting back and sitting cross-legged. Before getting anything set up, he grabs his phone and texts Victoria. He hopes she isn’t busy ― he’d really like to be with someone right now, especially someone who knows him as well as Victoria. Which is… well, no one else, except his sister. But Kris is in Brazil, and doesn’t smoke weed, and Nathan doesn’t think a voluntary feelings jam would be very comfortable anyway.

**[3:43 PM] little punk ass:** come over

**[3:43 PM] <3 queen bitch <3: **Can it wait??? Im writing this dumb fucking essay for my literature class

**[3:43 PM] <3 queen bitch <3: **Literally fuck oedipus. Stupid fucking mom fucker fucking gouging his eyes out serves him right fuckin nasty ass bitch

**[3:43 PM] little punk ass:** im rollin a j rn

**[3:43 PM] <3 queen bitch <3:** On my way!

Nathan snickers at the message, then puts his phone down and gets to work. In record time, from years of practice, he grinds up a few of the buds, shakes it all onto the paper which lies on the tray in his lap, rolls it up and finally seals it with his tongue. By the time Victoria opens his door, Nathan has already put everything away and sits on his bed with his back against the wall, smoking a lit joint.

“Fuck yes.” Victoria exclaims when she shuts the door behind her and kicks off her flats, joining Nathan on his bed. He notes that she’s wearing leggings, fuzzy pink socks, a light pink shirt that says ‘Je T'aime’ on it in white cursive letters, paired with a fitted maroon cardigan. Her face is free of makeup, Nathan also notices, not that he'd be bothered otherwise ― he’s not one of _those_ guys ― but it is nice to see Victoria dressed so casually. It reminds Nathan of his exposed arms and sweatpants. Victoria is the only person in the world he’s okay with seeing him for who he really is, for the most part. Of course, there are some secrets Nathan can never tell ― but if you disregard the horror he’s trapped himself in with Jefferson, Victoria probably knows everything about him.

He really does love her.

“Hey. Nate?” Her voice breaks him out of a daze he didn’t realize he’d fallen into. He blinks at her slowly, and she touches his arm and rubs it up and down comfortingly. He doesn’t flinch. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just high.” Speaking of which ― Nathan takes a quick puff on his joint before handing it to Victoria. She takes a long drag, holds it in her lungs, and breathes out smoke. “Plus, a lot of shit happened in the last hour. I’m fuckin’ disoriented.” He laughs.

“Oh yeah?” She says, quirking an eyebrow in interest. She takes another hit, and passes it back to Nathan. “Like what?”

“I got a C on that project I just turned in for Mr. Jefferson,” he explains, and pauses to smoke again. He breathes out and coughs softly, feeling himself slip away from his problems. “The one with that fucked up bunny we found.”

“No shit!” Victoria exclaims in surprise, not sarcasm. “That was a good fucking picture. Gross, but it was really good.” Nathan hands her the joint. She takes a hit, and speaks while holding the smoke deep in her lungs. “What’d you do to him?” Her voice is strained, and she coughs out smoke, which makes Nathan laugh. Victoria grabs a pillow and throws it at him, which just makes him laugh more ― still, he gets up and grabs her a water bottle, subsequently tossing it at her and sitting back down. She does not catch it.

“Went into his classroom and started flipping shit at him.” Nathan states plainly, taking his turn. He puffs out a few smoky circles ― he’s pretty proud of that one. “Nothing happened. Whatever. I don’t fuckin’ care anymore.” It’s true, for now at least, when he’s loose limbed and relaxed from the high.

“At least you got it out of your system.” She plucks the joint from Nathan’s fingers, puffs, puffs again, and passes it back. “What else?”

“Uh,” Nathan thinks for a moment. He leans back and shuts his eyes, joint in hand.

“Nathan, take your hit, jesus.” Victoria says after a few moments of silence.

"I’m thinking! Jesus,” He takes his hit anyway. “Fuck. Right. I’m being fucked by Wells, my dad and Mrs. Grant.” Victoria’s eyebrows raise to her hairline. “They’re forcing me to be tutored every day,” Nathan clarifies, making his best friend sigh in relief. She takes the joint ― puff, puff, pass. “By that fucking bitchass beta phag Warren, too.”

“Oh my goooood,” she drawls. “I fucking hate that kid. He’s got such a boner for that hipster bitch Max.” Nathan hums in agreement and takes two hits, and passes it back.

“Yeah. So I have no say in this, as per fucking usual. But get this ― dude left his room unlocked, so I looked around in the shit’s room and found something pretty fuckin’ interesting.” Victoria leans forward in interest.

“What?” she asks. “Nudes? Vibrator? Creep-shots of Max?” The grin that stretches over her face is ridiculous.

“Jesus fuck, Vic.” He snorts. “No, fuckin’ A. Any of those would have been fucking awesome for my case, but,” Nathan takes a hit. “No. Adderall. Unmarked bottle.”

Victoria’s jaw drops in a way that is so cartoonish Nathan can hardly believe she exists. “Oh. My. God! He’s totally taking addy! Holy shit, that’s probably why everyone calls him a ‘prodigy,’” Victoria makes air quotes with her fingers when she says the word, with a snide tone. “So, you gonna take it to Wells?”

“Nah.” He watches Victoria inhale and exhale a thick, white cloud of smoke. She coughs, and takes another sip of the water Nathan had gotten her. “Gonna go to him after this pointless meeting with Mrs. Grant about the whole… shebang,” He laughs quietly to himself. Victoria just smirks. “Tell him I know his dirty little secret and that I have pictures, and that if he doesn’t tell Grant he’s not gonna tutor me no matter how much money Sean shoves up his ass, I’ll post them everywhere and show Wells. His scholarship would be fucked, and he’d probably get expelled.” Another hit.

“Damn, Nate. Cold blooded. You know I’m attracted to evil, are you trying to get in my pants?” Nathan knows Victoria well enough to know that she’s just joking, and also that she becomes a flirt when she’s high. Or maybe she just gets really horny. Either way, you know?

“Only if you use a strap on.” Nathan says blatantly, and winks at her. They stare at each other for a few seconds before neither of them can keep the joke going, and thus, they erupt into laughter.

“Shit, Nate.” Victoria says, still giggling a little bit. She takes a hit ― the joint-shaped snake of ash on the end finally breaks, falling right onto her leggings.

“Fuck! Fuck!” She yells, standing up quickly and frantically brushing herself off. Inspecting the fabric, she groans in distress. “Fuck, there’s a fucking hole, god dammit. These were 40 bucks!” She falls back on the bed. Nathan warily takes the joint from her and grabs an ash tray from under his bed, holding it under himself while he takes a few hits. It’s almost a weedless stub at this point, and Nathan likes keeping the remnants of a smoked joint (or blunt) incase of emergency. So he puts it out, and sets the ashtray back under his bed.

“Who’s fault is that?” Nathan says as he lays down with Victoria, his feet toward his pillows and the back of his head on her chest. Like it’s just natural, she threads her hand into his hair and gently runs her fingers through it. It doesn’t mess it up at all, since he chose not to style his hair today ― he wasn’t planning on coming to school after all ― but even if it was styled, he still probably wouldn’t care.

“Asshole,” She says fondly. Nathan doesn’t respond, and the two lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

By the time Victoria speaks up again, Nathan is almost asleep.

“Hey, Nate?” She asks, voice soft. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” he says, not bothering to open his eyes. “Shoot.”

“When was the last time you cut?” Nathan’s heart drops only a little, just out of instinct. For the most part, he doesn’t mind when Victoria asks him personal stuff like that. It just reaffirms that she cares about him, and that makes Nathan feel anxious, yes, but it also makes him feel very warm.

“Few weeks ago. Last time I got into a fight with my Dad. Already told you about it.” His eyes are still closed, and he can swear he feels himself drifting to sleep. Good. He wants to; it’s the only way he can escape. And with the weed and Victoria rubbing circles into his scalp, he thinks that for once, he’ll have a good dream.

“Okay. Good.” She rubs her hand down his arm, slowly tracing over each protruding scar. The tissue is sensitive, but it’s not a bad feeling. It just makes him feel less gross about his arms. “I just wanted to make sure you haven’t since then.”

“Thanks, Vic.” A small smile curls its way onto Nathan’s lips. He loves Victoria. Not in a romantic way, not even in a ‘platonic’ way, he just… loves her. So much. And he’s so fucking glad that he has her, because if he didn’t, Nathan has no doubt in his mind that he would be dead right now.

“I love you, Nate.” Victoria says, as if she’s reading his mind. She yawns softly, and adjusts herself so her back is pressed against Nathan’s chest. It’s not sexual, it isn’t romantic, it’s just comfortable. After Victoria pulls a blanket over them, Nathan ropes his arms around his friend’s waist and pulls her close.

“I love you too, Vic.” He whispers, and slowly, listening to the sound of Victoria’s soft breathing and birds chirping outside the window, he falls asleep.

He dreams of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was everything you dreamed of and more! 
> 
> If you'd like to see what posters in Warren's room I'm talking about, here are the links to the first and second one that I described! 
> 
> First one: https://bit.ly/2zSnKPv  
> Second one: https://bit.ly/2uOLGjQ


	3. Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! I've been super busy with school lately because I'm graduating soon. Once this month is over, updates should be more frequent!
> 
> This chapter's song is Wonderland by Caravan Palace. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCXsRoyFRQE

Suddenly, Warren is not in his bedroom. He opens his eyes and finds himself lying on a wet dirt ground, with a splitting headache and a storm raging around him. Wearily, he props himself up by his elbows and recognizes the scene immediately; he’s at the bottom of the trail that goes up to the lighthouse, just like the dream he had in class.

 _Why am I here again?_   Warren’s mind echoes, as he forces himself to stand up. Though the knowledge that this is just a nightmare brings him some comfort, he’s still terrified as he takes in the horrifying scene.

Lucidity. He knows that he’s dreaming, knows that his body is lying in his bed just as it had been before he fell asleep. Warren has never had a lucid dream before, but if he recalls correctly, he should be able to change it at will ― right? The best he can do is shut his eyes tight and hope.

“Please dream of something better,” he says to himself. “Please be something less scary.”

The sounds of rain and thunder bellow in his ears as he waits for _something_ : silence, serenity, peace. However, the storm does not cease its attack on Warren’s senses, and when he opens his eyes to the same ferocious storm, he can only sigh.

However, soon after, a sound foreign to the current environment resonates in his ears. It’s soft, almost left unheard. He looks down, and to his surprise ― a translucent cat is sitting right at his feet.

“Shit!” he exclaims, jumping back in surprise. The creature does not move, besides the steady swing of its tail. Warren sneezes.

 _Seriously. How am I still allergic to cats in the dream world?_ He wipes his nose on his sleeve. Warren stares at the cat ― it doesn’t seem aggressive, despite the literal nightmare world he’s in. A good sign, he supposes, so he allows himself to feel an odd sense of comfort at the otherworldly presence. Cautiously, he kneels and holds out his hand, just as he would do to greet any other animal.

The cat tilts his head quizzically before inspecting the boy’s hand. It sniffs and nudges Warren’s fingers, and not soon after, licks his hand: Warren shudders. It doesn’t phase through his hand like he would have expected; instead, he feels the familiar rough texture of a cat’s tongue. He rubs underneath the cat’s chin, the side of its head, and finally behind its ears. It seems to enjoy the feeling, so much so that it nuzzles into the palm of his hand and purrs. Warren smiles.

Though it seemed to be enjoying the affection, without warning, the cat turns around and starts walking away. The same way Warren had walked before, he notes as he stands up and watches it go. It’s departure saddens him just for a moment, but the animal goes out of view, it stops and looks back at Warren like it’s beckoning for him to follow.

Swallowing thickly, he hesitantly and slowly follows the animal up the path. His heart beats in his throat, expecting the worst. Regardless, he presses on and reminds himself that _this is only a dream, nothing can hurt you._ The cat, thankfully, never once leaves his sight. As Warren struggles against the elements, it stops its venture and waits patiently, giving him his much needed time.

Soon, the pair makes it to the top of the hill. When the lighthouse comes into view, however, Warren’s heart drops to his stomach and he freezes. If his dream remains the same despite the addition of the ghostly cat, he’s dreading what happens next. Though he knows he won’t feel the impact of the lighthouse, there’s nothing more terrifying than death itself plummeting right at you in the form of a 300-foot tower ― dream or not. He stares at the ground where he’d seen the Earth rip apart, not daring to shift his gaze or even blink because if it happens again — he wants to know. Even if there’s nothing he can do, he just wants to _know._

But it doesn’t come. Maybe he’d only been standing there for a few minutes, but it already feels like far longer than he’d waited before. More time passes, and eventually Warren is forced to come to the grim conclusion that now, he must face the unknown.

He turns with the expectation that his new friend would be standing by his side. To his surprise — and panic — it is not, sending Warren into a panic. He turns around, eyes darting wildly from place to place until he spots the creature sitting on the fence that borders the cliff, staring off into the storm. He sighs, relieved, and approaches the edge. Whereas Warren battles with the winds, the cat seems to be unaffected by the weather.

Warren grips the fence when he finally reaches it, and looks at the cat — it does not look back.

“Why am I here?” Warren hears himself yell. The animal doesn’t acknowledge him then, and it doesn’t acknowledge him when he cries out in pain from a sudden and piercing ringing noise assaults his eardrums.

“Stop,” He begs, slamming his hands over his ears. It doesn’t help. “Stop!”

 _“I’m sorry.”_ He hears a voice say, somewhere far off.

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry, Warren.”_

The pain is indescribable. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, nothing he ever thought possible for him to feel. Tears spill down his cheeks as he looks at the animal, hoping for an answer. This time, finally, it looks at him.

“Get me out of here. _Please._ ”

The cat turns back to the storm, as if it’s giving the request some thought. It stands up, somehow balancing perfectly on the rickety wooden fence ― and then, it jumps over the edge, disappearing into the fog below.    

Warren’s heart stops and then starts again at full force, but he knows what he has to do.

He jumps.

* * *

When Warren wakes up, he can’t breathe. At least, it doesn’t feel like he can; he hears himself breathing, but it’s too much, too fast. His heart ― his heart is beating with the intensity of the storm he’d just dreamt about. Springing out of his bed, stumbles backward.

“Fuck!” He cries out, feeling a sharp pain as something pierces his left foot. The shock of it all ― paired with the fact that he just woke up _and_ that all of this happened in a span of a few seconds ― sends him falling to the floor, landing on his ass and hitting his head on his wall. He groans.

 _Calm the fuck down, Warren._ He takes a deep, deep breath and lets it go after a few seconds; rinse, rather, repeat. Seconds pass, or maybe minutes while Warren sits against the wall and listens to his ragged breath even out.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Snap out of it. Come on.” he forces himself to sit up, hissing in pain. He takes his ankle in his hands and looks at the underside, shocked and perplexed as he sees the shard of glass stuck in his foot and the blood trickling down his sole. Warren’s face crumples in confusion that only worsens when he looks up and sees a small trail of red leading to a framed picture of him and his family, once on his desk and now lying shattered on the floor.

“Wh…” He stares in disbelief. Did the frame fall when he was asleep? Unlikely, as he had it pushed pretty far back so that’d it would be next to his computer. Even so, it would have woken him up if it fell, right? Which means it must have broken yesterday, sometime he hadn’t been in his dorm. It’s possible Warren just didn’t notice ― he wasn’t the most observant person, after all ― but still, how could it have fallen in the first place?

He chalks it up to some freak accident and brushes it off in favor of taking care of his foot. The shard doesn’t seem to be lodged too deep, just enough to make his blood run like Usain Bolt. Warren’s grateful that it’s a pretty big piece, since he doesn’t really feel like digging it out with tweezers. That isn’t to say it doesn’t hurt like a bitch when he yanks it out, though. Warren winces, forcing himself to concentrate as he tosses the shard aside. The wound itself thankfully isn’t so bad, definitely not bad enough to warrant stitches: Warren silently thanks a God he only kind of believes in. With the help of the wall next to him, he pulls himself up, promptly hopping across his room for a paper towel, some Neosporin, and a bandaid.

A few minutes later, Warren’s foot is all patched up and more or less ready to be walked on. It doesn’t hurt as much with a pair of thick socks on, but either way it still sort of sucks. Whatever ― Warren can deal with a little bit of pain. What he can’t deal with, or rather, what he doesn’t want to deal with, is the little droplets of blood now scattered throughout his room. He takes care of the more noticeable stains, but elects to ignore the rest for now, or forever, since he doubts anyone will ever notice.

After doing that, and cleaning the glass up (he’ll get a new frame for the picture later, but for now he just props it up against his monitor) his phone tells him that he’s still got quite a bit of time before class starts. Warren sighs deeply, flopping back onto his bed and snuggling into a pillow. His eyes flutter shut, and he briefly considers taking a quick nap ― but he’d rather not risk sleeping through class, not to mention he _really_ doesn’t want to have that dream again. Though, he’s only had it twice now, so he can’t quite say whether or not it’s reoccurring. Even if it is, it’s probably just some subconscious manifestation of stress. Being an academic prodigy isn’t easy, after all, especially considering that his scholarship is the only thing keeping Warren at Blackwell. His parents certainly can’t afford it, so one misstep, and he’s out.

At least, that’s what they tell him. Somewhere, Warren knows that a few B’s or even C’s here and there isn’t going to hurt him ― but with his parents being so strict about academics, anything below perfect feels like the end of the world. Warren loves his parents, and he knows they love him. But sometimes…

Sometimes, it’s just too much.

He taps mindlessly through his phone as he considers the theory, thoughts eventually melting away into nothingness save for the dull stinging in his foot and brief acknowledgements of random posts on social media. He tries to keep it that way, though it’s hard to keep his mind from drifting. He thinks about Max and Chloe, ignoring the way his heart aches when he does. He thinks about Kate — how she hasn’t really been the same since that video was posted. He tries not to think about the video itself, having watched it out of curiosity at first but now wishing he’d never seen it.

Time passes by as Warren thinks, and thinks, and thinks, until it’s time to get ready for class. Begrudgingly, he drags himself out of bed. After an extended glance at himself in the mirror, spent prodding at his insecurities and fixing his hair that looks much too curly for his liking, he dresses himself in a graphic tee and jeans. He’s considered dressing a little more fashionably, but he doesn’t think anyone would care, or even notice; so he doesn’t.

Warren doesn’t need a shower, since he took one yesterday night. Still, he heads to the bathroom to do his business, brush his teeth, wash his face, all of that. Vibrations in his pocket and the screen of his phone when he pulls it out tells him it’s time to take his medication, so — when he’s back in his room, he grabs a water bottle and the backpack he keeps his medicine in.

Sitting on his bed with the bag next to him, he grabs the first bottle he sees: his seizure medication. Though he hasn’t had a seizure since he was a kid, and he doesn’t technically need it anymore — he still takes it every morning, more for his parents’ ease of mind than his own.

Next comes Adderall. Now, this one — this one, without a doubt, he _needs._ Having ADHD definitely doesn’t make it easy to hold up his reputation as ‘smartest kid at Blackwell’. Not that having it makes him stupid (though sometimes Warren can’t help feeling like an idiot), but school is just… hard. It’s always been hard, and it probably always will be, regardless of what pills he’s taking. Still, the medication _helps_ , and Warren can’t imagine school without it.

That being said, Warren is justifiably confused and upset when, after dumping his bag out and desperately searching through his junk,  the bottle is nowhere to be seen.

He tries suppressing the rising panic he feels, telling himself that it’s okay — this has happened before. He just misplaced them, that’s all. A few deep breaths calm him down, allowing him to get up and search his room without tearing it apart in distress. First, he checks his shelves; nothing but books, movies, and some awesome figurines. Then he looks in his closet, more or less needing to tear it apart just because it’s already a black hole that sucks up all of his belongings. Still, nothing.

Now is the time Warren allows himself a healthy amount of panic, which only increases the longer he looks for the elusive orange bottle. He checks his desk, his backpack, his drawers, even under his bed — nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. His chest closes, throat tightens, brain fills with static that makes it impossible to think. Time seems to taunt him as the minutes count down from forty, thirty, twenty minutes until class.

At the ten minute mark, Warren accepts defeat and surrenders to the fact that he’s going to have to face the day unmedicated. It’s not like he’s an addict, or that he’ll even go through withdrawals — it’s just that, he hasn’t missed a dose on a school day in _years_ . Hell, he’ll even take it weekends he plans to spend with friends, because he knows how annoying he is without it. That thought alone terrifies him — but being at _school_ without it? It makes him consider just skipping all together, a thought incredibly foreign for Warren.

He sits on his floor, wanting to and feeling like crying, but nothing comes out. All he can do is stare ahead and listen to the sound of his heart. With how many palpitations he’s gotten in the last day and a half, Warren wouldn’t be surprised if he died of a heart attack at sixteen.

 _Maybe that would be for the best,_ Warren almost thinks, averting the thought by quickly shoving it to the back of his brain where he keeps all of the feelings that scare him too much to address.

It takes a minute of telling himself to just _forget, forget, forget_ — and he can’t, not completely. But it’s enough, for now, to give Warren the strength to get up and float mindlessly through the day.

* * *

It’s bad.

Being lucky enough to get a diagnosis in elementary school, Warren had long forgotten how helpless he feels when he’s unmedicated at school. That being said, it’s exactly how he feels now — completely, indubitably helpless. Which, in turn, feels like _hell._ That’s not to say his medication cures his ADHD whenever he’s on it; it doesn’t, but it definitely makes everything easier. It doesn’t make him any smarter either, but when he’s giving himself a headache from how intensely he’s trying to absorb his lessons, Warren can’t help but feel stupid. He hates it, how he’s trying so hard to just sit still and _listen_ and he just — can’t. The notes he takes end up being an array of sketches, and not the helpful kind either.

(On top of that all, during Chemistry, when Warren is just minding his own business doodling Mrs. Grant sitting at her desk, Nathan Prescott (of course) won’t stop fucking staring at him with this sour look on his face like Warren broke into his house and fucked his mom. Usually, he’s used to all the shit he gets from the Vortex Club, and this is no different, at least, probably not to Nathan. It just feels like everyone can see right through him, with the relentless bouncing of his leg, fingers tapping, the way he squeezes his eyes shut every once in awhile when he gets overwhelmed. Nathan’s death glare does not help with that anxiety, not in the slightest.)

But the day comes and goes, and soon enough, he’s sitting in Cosmology staring at the clock rather than his notebook. He counts down the minutes in clumps. Ten minutes until ten minutes left, ten until five, five until five, three, two, one — the bell rings. Warren shoves his things into his backpack and bolts for the door, aiming to be the first one out.

“Warren, where are you going?” He grinds his teeth together at Mrs. Grant’s voice and ignores the way people look at him like he’s in trouble. Is he? Warren supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

“Sorry, did you need me for something?” He asks when he’s back at her desk, foot tapping impatiently. Mrs. Grant raises an eyebrow at him, like he’s missing something.

“Did you get my email?”

 _Shit._ Mrs. Grant sighs at the obvious confusion on her student’s face.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, shuffling some papers around. “You can have a seat somewhere in the front. I’ll explain when Nathan gets here.

_Nathan?_

He nods meekly, sitting down as Mrs. Grant had instructed. Was she talking about _that_ Nathan? Warren hopes to hell and back she isn’t, because if she is, that means…

The door opens, and Warren audibly groans.

Nathan Prescott stands under the door frame, lips pressed tightly together as he gives Warren the same look from earlier. He holds the glare for a few seconds while Warren does his best to not look at him.

He walks angrily (Warren wonders if that’s just how he walks) to the nearest seat, in the front but the other side of the room. He crosses his arms and looks down at the desk, glaring at it. There’s something else in his face, Warren notes, that almost looks like pain.

“Alright,” Mrs. Grant says. “Let’s get started.”

“Um, what’s going on?” Warren asks, still completely oblivious. Nathan scoffs.

“Right. I emailed the both of you last night, though one of you isn’t very good at checking their email—“ Warren turns a bright shade of red and sinks into his chair a little bit, embarrassed but otherwise not offended. “—I’ll just run through this real quick.” She turns her head to face Warren, hands clasped together on her desk. There’s this hesitation in her voice that does not make Warren excited to hear what she’s about to say.

“Warren,” she starts, making the boy in question sink even further down into his chair. He wishes he could disappear. Despite it all, there’s no way he could have predicted what she was going to say next.

“Nathan’s father — Mr. Prescott — is offering to pay you to tutor Nathan in Chemistry.”

Warren’s head snaps up. Nathan, on the other hand, only becomes smaller.

“Wait, what? He’s — Mr. Prescott — Nathan — what?” Warren stutters through his words, gesturing as he struggles to form a sentence. Mrs. Grant stays silent while he collects himself.

“Why?” he finally asks, which, in retrospect, is probably a stupid question.

“Because I’m failing, dumbass.” Nathan finally pipes up, not averting his gaze from where he has it locked on the desk.

“Language.” Mrs. Grant warns Nathan, to which she only receives an eye-roll. She sighs. “...but, yes, that is the reason. Nathan is struggling in chemistry, and Mr. Prescott has personally requested that you tutor him.”

“He specifically… what? Um,” Warren shuts his eyes for a second while he thinks. “Why? I mean, you just explained that, but I’m, uh… how does Nathan’s dad even know who I am?” He feels weird talking about Nathan like he’s not in the room, but he figures Nathan doesn’t want to him either.

“Mr. Prescott is a huge contributor to Blackwell in terms of funding, which I’m sure you know.” Warren nods. “Because of this, he has access to many of the same files Principal Wells has, including student records and class rankings.” She leans forward in her chair. “Warren, you are the youngest person to attend Blackwell Academy, _and_ one of the top students. That grabs people’s attention — Mr. Prescott happens to be one of those people.” Warren blushes again, appreciating the complement but not enjoying the spotlight. He glances at Nathan and back a few times, feeling a rush of guilt at his sad expression. It’s easy to gather that he hasn’t much choice in the matter. If he did, Warren guesses he’s not the one Nathan would chose to tutor him.

“Um…” Warren picks at his cuticles nervously, unsure of what to say. “I mean — I can just tutor him, I don’t need to be… uh, compensated for it.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Nathan look at him. Warren glances back, to which Nathan very quickly averts his gaze.

Mrs. Grant smiles softly. She looks at Nathan, and then back at Warren, with a sad look in her eyes. “I thought you would say that. I told Mr. Prescott, but he insists.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“He’s not gonna take no for an answer.” Nathan says, less hostile and more matter-of-fact. Mrs. Grant just nods.

“What… uh, like, how much… how much would I even be paid?” The question is one he feels like a dick for asking, but if Nathan’s dad isn’t going to let it go, he might as well know.

“Mr. Prescott is offering twenty dollars per session.”

 _Okay, that’s not too much._ Warren feels a little bit more comfortable with the situation. Not much, but a little bit. “Is this like, a once a week sort of thing?”

There’s another moment of hesitation from Mrs. Grant, silently letting Warren know the answer to his question.

“Every weekday after school until 4:30, likely for the rest of the year.”

Warren’s jaw drops. “Holy shit,” he breathes out. Mrs. Grant gives him a look. “Sorry, I just — that’s — I mean that’s like…” he squints as he does the math in his head. “...100 dollars a week? For the rest of the year? That’s so much money. I know you guys are rich,” He looks at Nathan. “But that’s _so much money!_ I couldn’t accept that, really, it’s fine, I can just tutor him, it’s fine—“

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up,” Warren doesn’t realize he’s rambling until Nathan interrupts him. His jaw clamps tightly shut. “Just take the money, you’re not gonna lose any good boy points, jesus christ.”

Warren looks at Mrs. Grant, who seems to have given up on the no swearing policy. She just sighs again.

“It’s your call, Warren.” She says, and, God, it makes Warren feel even more fucked up about the whole thing. Sure, Nathan’s never been nice to him, but does that make this okay? The way Warren’s stomach curls tells that no, it’s not. But on the other hand… his family isn’t in the greatest place financially. They could survive without the money, but an extra one-hundred dollars every week would make all the difference. He could pay for his own medication, pay his phone bills if he saved up. And, God, he would _rule_ Hanukkah presents.

The image of his mother crying about hospital bills when he was having seizures daily pops into his head — and just like that, Warren’s made his decision.

“Okay.”  

“Okay.” Mrs. Grant nods, looking at the both of them. “Sessions start after school on Monday, in this room.”

“Can I go now?” Nathan asks harshly.

“Yes, you’re both free to go.” Nathan launches from his chair, and Warren swears he sees Mrs. Grant roll her eyes when he slams the door on his way out. In contrast, Warren gets up quietly and pushes his chair in. He looks at the teacher, who gives him a sympathetic look.

“You’re a good person, Warren.” she says. “I know this is an uncomfortable situation, but you’re doing the right thing.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Warren says honestly.

“I know.” Mrs. Grant sighs. “As a teacher, I’m probably not supposed to say this, but between you and me…” Warren leans in a bit. “Sean — Nathan’s father — he’s not a good man. Stay out of his way.”

Warren nods slowly, feeling the mutual understanding between them. He’s never met the man himself, but he’s heard far too many horrible things about Nathan’s father to have a neutral opinion.

“Anyway.” She leans back, more relaxed. “You have a good weekend, alright?”

“Yeah, you too.” Warren smiles. “See you Monday,” he says, walking out the door and shutting it behind him.

A second after he turns the corner at the end of the hallway, Warren is being shoved against the lockers with two pale fists holding him by the collar of his shirt. It’s so unexpected and disorienting that it takes him a second to process what just happened, and another to realize that the two angry blue eyes staring him down belong to Nathan Prescott.

 _Of course_.

“I know you’ve been taking addy to stay wired at school,” He hisses, voice just above a whisper. Warren blinks at him, confused. “Some fuckin’ prodigy you are.”

“Dude, what are you even talking about?” Warren questions, more confused than afraid. And what the hell is ‘addy’? “Are you accusing me of doing drugs? Because I’ve only been drunk, like, once, and it wasn’t even that great—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Warren promptly does so. “Holy shit,” Nathan murmurs under his breath, already exasperated. “Quit the bullshit, Gayram. I’m gonna get your ass expelled if you don’t do what I say.”

 _Great, so this is blackmail?_ Warren squints as he rummage through his brain for any expellable offenses he’s committed, though he keeps a pretty clean record, so he’s not really sure what dirt Nathan could have on him. Sure, he’s built and set off rockets and firecrackers, but that was all in the comfort of his backyard!

Warren decides he might as well humor Nathan for a minute while he figures out what the hell he’s talking about. “Okay, okay, jesus. What do you want me to do?”

“Tell Mrs. Grant you’re not gonna tutor me, no matter how much money Sean shoves up your ass.”

Is he _serious_? Warren figured Nathan wanted him to build a bomb or something. But all of this, over being tutored?

“Seriously? What’s your problem with knowledge?” He asks — clearly, not the right answer, as Nathan’s fists tighten in his shirt and he’s shoved hard against the lockers again.

“None of your fucking business!”

“Dude, I literally have no idea what you’re talking about! Throw me a bone here,” Warren pleads, confusion more than evident on his face. His expression must convince Nathan that he really doesn’t know what’s going on, because he mumbles something offensive under his breath and lets Warren go. Subsequently, he pulls something orange out of his coat pocket and shoves it into Warren’s hands.

Involuntarily, Warren’s jaw drops.  It’s his medication.

At the shocked reaction, Nathan seems satisfied, like he’s just caught the other boy in a lie. “Keep it, I have pictures. I don’t give a fuck what you do as long as you stay the fuck out of my way.”

The pieces start to fall into place and Warren’s confusion slowly turns to rage as he realizes what happened. Nathan — in an attempt to blackmail Warren out of tutoring him — broke into his room and stole his medication thinking that Warren had been taking it recreationally.

In his most rational mind, he can almost understand the mistake. Pills in an unmarked bottle is a universal red flag for Bad Shit. Hell, Warren can picture Max making the same assumption. But he really doesn’t do drugs, and if he did, he definitely wouldn’t take _pills_. In terms of the label itself, Warren had picked it off in a fit of anxiety, consequences not considered.

But it wasn’t like Nathan was hanging out with Warren and just happened to see the bottle. Nathan had broken into his room and stolen his medication after making an assumption about someone he doesn’t even know. As a matter of fact, Warren’s more than willing to bet Nathan’s the one who smashed the picture on his desk, too.

He wonders if the truth had ever crossed Nathan’s mind as a possibility, and with that, he can’t help but laugh. Warren’s pissed, don’t get him wrong ― but this whole situation is just too ridiculous for him. It’s stupid, it really is, and it makes him question how the hell he got himself into this one.

“Fuck are you laughing at?” Nathan asks, angry and perplexed at the sudden change in attitude.

 _There’s two ways to handle this,_ Warren thinks. He can listen to Nathan, let him have the upper hand. He could tell Mrs. Grant he’s out, and then live his life normally.

Or, Warren could take the one chance he’s been given to have some power, over Nathan Prescott no less. He could be ballsy, he could confess the wicked truth and tutor him for the rest of the year. Now, Warren doesn’t particularly _want_ to see Nathan every day, but knowing that it’d make him miserable… the opportunity is tempting. It’s petty revenge, sure, but it’s not nearly as cruel as the bullying that Warren and his friends endure, a large portion of which is carried out by Nathan. Warren doesn’t consider himself to be a vengeful person. But if Nathan Prescott’s anti-drug is being tutored?

Well, Warren can’t just pass that up.

“You’re an idiot.”

Nathan pummels his fist into Warren’s eye almost instantaneously. He barely has a second to collect himself, groaning in pain from his now swelling eye (and his head hitting the lockers from the impact) before fight or flight kicks in and sends him into action. Warren grunts, puts his hands on Nathan’s shoulders and pushes, successfully flipping them around after a few moments of struggle. The triumph is short lived, however, when Nathan grips Warren’s shoulders and swiftly headbutts him, sending him tumbling to the floor.

“I’m not a fucking idiot!” Nathan screeches, pouncing on Warren like a lion catching its prey. He punches hard but uncoordinated, allowing Warren to shield his head with his arms after suffering a few blows to his face. He jabs his elbow into Nathan’s eye and flips them over again, and punches him in the face, not once, not twice, but three times. It surprises even Warren himself, because he’s never punched anybody in his life, hadn’t even known he had it in him.

“If you weren’t stupid you’d know I have fucking ADHD!” Warren throws another punch. Nathan grabs his arm before it comes in contact with his cheek, and then grabs his other, holding him tightly by the wrists. Warren can’t do much to get out of his grasp, but Nathan can’t do much either without his hands.

“Bullshit,” Nathan exclaims, grunting as he jolts around in an attempt to get out from under Warren.  “The label was torn off, dipshit. Nobody does that if they’re fuckin’ sober all the time, I would know ― Jesus fucking christ, get the fuck off of me!”

“I was bored! That doesn’t make me a druggie!” Warren protests as he tries to weasel his way out of Nathan’s fists, to no avail.

“Yeah, but taking addy to make everyone think you’re some kind of fucking genius does!”

“Then go tell Principal Wells!” Warren yells, watching the way Nathan’s eyes widen a little bit in possibly, hopefully, realization. “Go tell Mrs. Grant. Tell my fucking parents! They won’t care because it’s a fucking prescription!”

Nathan presses his lips together in a thin line, staring at Warren with red-hot rage in his eyes. He stares back — and for a few long seconds, that’s all they do.

The moment passes. Nathan releases his hold on Warren’s wrists, and in a swift movement, shoves him hard enough that he tumbles off of Nathan and onto the cold linoleum floor. Nathan stands up and glares at Warren. He lays there, propping himself up with his elbows as he watches Nathan storm down the hallway and out of the building without another word. As he collects himself and stands up, rubbing his bruised cheek, there is only one thought on his mind:

_What the hell just happened?_

* * *

“Okay, I don’t think your nose is broken.” Max says as she prods at his injuries, assessing the damage. He had texted her just a few minutes before, with a sheepish selfie of his messed-up face — and Max, being the great friend she is, showed up at his dorm without a second thought.

“Thank God, my nose is already fucked up enough.”

“Oh, shut up. I think your nose is fine,” Max reprimands him for the self deprecation, then moves to his cheek. Taking a damp paper towel, she dabs at the little bit of blood from the small cut on his cheekbone. She frowns as she does so, staying quiet for a few moments.

“What happened?” she asks softly while she puts a bit of Neosporin on the wound, and then covers it with the tiniest bandage Warren has ever seen.

“Would you believe me if I said I ran into a door?” Warren gives this small half-laugh as he says it, but there’s an evident sadness in his voice.

Max sighs. “No.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Warren  looks off somewhere else. Max smiles a little bit, in that sympathetic but worried way that would have made Warren’s heart flutter a couple of days ago. Right now, though, it just makes him feel worse.

Regardless, Max doesn’t pry, which is unlike her but Warren appreciates it all the same. She does continue to prod, however, just at his swollen eye. He winces.

“Sorry,” It comes out as a whisper.  She presses her lips together and puts her hands in her lap, looking at him quizzically for a few seconds before taking an ice-pack and holding it up against his left eye.

“Hold this here,” she requests. Warren does. “I think that’s all I can do.”

His shoulders slump. “Can’t you cover it with makeup or something?”

“I could, but it’d probably hurt to put on, and you’re not fooling anyone with that gnarly black eye.”

He groans and falls back on his bed. “Maybe I just have really bad allergies!”

“In one eye?”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, then grabs a pillow and holds it tight against his chest. Max doesn’t leave right away like he thought she would — not like he wants her to, anyway. Instead, she stays sitting on his bed, looking around his room aimlessly like she’s waiting for something. Warren pokes his head up, Max looks at him, and then quickly looks away. He sighs and lays back down.

“I got in a fight with Nathan,” he sighs, and immediately Max gives him full attention.

“Why?” She asks, now facing. She pulls her legs up on his bed, sitting cross-legged.

“...it’s kind of a weird story.”

“I’m listening.”

Warren sits up, facing Max as he grabs a throw-blanket from the ground and wraps it around himself. “Mrs. Grant asked me to tutor him in  , ‘cause his grade is shit and apparently Daddy Prescott has a problem with that,” Warren rolls his eyes.

“For real?”

“Yeah, that’s not it though. Nathan — uh, his dad wants to pay me for it. Like, actual money. I tried saying no, because I think it’s kinda weird, but I guess he ‘insists’, whatever that means.”

“No shit! How much?”

Warren gets quiet for a moment. “20 bucks.”

“Like, for all of it, or—“

“Um, no — 20 per day.”

“Okay, well, how many days?”

He wrinkles his nose. “...every day after school for the rest of the year.”

Max’s expression that follows is hilarious. “Holy shit, Warren! That’s like —“ Max sputters as she looks at her hands, as if she’s trying to count it on her fingers. “A _lot_ of money. That’s 100 dollars a week. Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what I said.” He snorts. “Anyway, I guess that pissed Nathan off. He, uh,” Warren pauses. “He broke into my room and took my ADHD meds thinking I was taking them to get high. After we talked to Mrs. Grant about the tutoring stuff, he cornered me in the hall threatening to blackmail me unless I backed out. I called him an idiot, he punched me, and we ended up on the ground. Somewhere in there I told him it was just a prescription, he didn’t believe me at first, but now I think he does? I don’t know. He just got up and walked away.”

As Warren speaks, he watches Max’s expression go from curiosity to astonishment to anger and then back to astonishment. She stays quiet until he’s finished, and for a little while after still while she processes the information. Eventually, Max’s brow crinkles and she finally speaks up.

“I’m gonna be honest… I have no idea what to say,” she says, at this point just seeming bewildered. Warren laughs.

“I know. Crazy, right?”

“Yes! Super fucking crazy! Like — how does he — I mean — aughhhh,” she groans, trying to search for the words. “Wouldn’t he have seen the prescription stuff on the bottle? Or something?”

Warren smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “I picked off the label.”

Max gives him a _look_.

“I was bored!” Warren puts his hands up defensively. “I picked it off when me and my dad were driving back from picking them up. It’s a long drive to the pharmacy,” he whines.

“I have no sympathy,” Max deadpans, then laughs. “Okay, to be fair, he shouldn’t have been in your room in the first place.”

“Exactly.” A lightbulb goes off in Warren’s head. “Shit, one more thing — he broke the picture that I kept on my desk.” Warren gets up and grabs the now frameless photograph of him with his family at the Grand Canyon, showing Max as he sits back down. “I had to throw away the frame.”

She takes the picture, squinting at it. “Warren… there’s blood on this.”

“Oh, yeah. I stepped on it.”

“Wait — like, the glass?”

“Yeah,  it cut the shit out of my foot.”

“Warren!” Max exclaims, in a scolding tone. She sets the picture aside. “Show me your foot.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I took care of it already—“

“Which one?”

“Left?”

Warren doesn’t get a reply. Instead, she grabs his left leg, swinging it over her lap with such force that Warren nearly falls off of the bed from it.

“Come oooon,” he whines, again, as Max pries off his sock.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” she says, ripping off the bandage (much to Warren’s dismay) to reveal his cut up foot. Decidedly, he accepts his fate and lays back down. He closes his eyes, trying not to giggle every time Max touches the pad of his foot.

He fails.

* * *

After Max finishes up her mom inspection, and Warren nearly kicks her in the face, the two end up on his bed with the lights off and the TV playing _Kill Bill: Vol 1._ Max lies on her stomach, and Warren sits next to her with his knees pulled against his chest. Between them is a half-eaten bag of microwave popcorn, and neither Warren or Max is paying much attention to the movie (even though it _is_ a classic.)

“So what ended up happening, anyway?” She asks, around 15 minutes into the movie.

“With what?” Warren grabs a handful of popcorn and shoves it in his mouth.

“The tutoring?”

“I got beat up, I told you.”

“No, I mean after that.” She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “You’re not still tutoring him after that, are you?”

Warren shrugs. “I dunno. I think it’d be kind of fun to shove my intelligence in his face.”

“Dick,” Max snorts. “Though it _would_ be pretty funny.”

“And a hundred dollars a week, I mean ― God, it makes me feel like such an ass, but I’d be crazy to say no to that.” He sighs. “It’d really help my family out right now.”

“I get that,” She smiles at him, putting her hand on his shoulder. Warren tries not to tense up. “Don’t feel bad. Nathan’s…” Max hesitates, like she’s searching for the right word. “Sketchy. Just be careful, ok?”

Warren raises an eyebrow at the sudden concern but shrugs it off as Max just being a good friend. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine.” He goes to shove more popcorn into his mouth, only then woefully realizing they’ve eaten it all.

“Remember that weird dream I had?” Warren asks, rather than re-focusing on the movie.

“The one with the storm?” Max looks at him.

“Yeah, that one. I had it again, but this time there was this weird ghost cat that I was following around. Creepy as hell.”

His friend gives him an odd look, before she looks back at the screen without replying. Warren watches the way her nose twitches as thoughts seem to bumble around in her mind, though he’s not sure why or what exactly she’s thinking about. Moments pass — Max’s phone buzzes a few times.

“I gotta go,” she says after she looks at the screen. Warren’s shoulders shrug in disappointment, but he doesn’t complain as she stands up, stretches, and grabs the first aid kit she’d brought over.

“Chloe?” Warren asks, smirking a little bit. Max smiles, blushes, and rolls her eyes.

“Always,” she says. It makes Warren’s chest burn, but not as much as it would before. All that matters is that Max is happy — and if Chloe makes her happy, what kind of person would Warren be if he got upset about it?

“Speaking of which,” He looks up at Max’s voice, while she’s standing right in the doorway.

“I want you to meet Chloe.”

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to strongly encourage anyone reading this to check out [Exposure by Gunophilia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124845), [Warren is Strange by SylphofScript](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339532), and [Trying to Be Someone's by Cashryley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934460). These fics inspired me a great amount and really motivated me to write this.


End file.
